


The Final Straw

by unwritten_tomorrow



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 14:47:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5379038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwritten_tomorrow/pseuds/unwritten_tomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jerome remembered more than what he wanted to know about the confrontation he had with his mother... He was ashamed to live that kind of reality and this was the final straw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Straw

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting a story on here so I'm sorry about the paragraph indentations and spacing being a bit off.

He woke up alone.  


 

Coldness coursed through his body, a sense that felt almost familiar, as the young man realized he was sprawled out on the floor. A dusty haze betrayed his vision, distorting his reality.  


 

Hissing through clenched teeth, the man attempted to stand on his own. A few feet that it took to get to the bathroom felt like a mile as he limped. The bathroom door slammed shut behind him as his body fell against it. The young man's chest heaved desperately for air and he closed his eyes, trying to recollect what caused him to be this way.  


 

_"Jerome!" his mother's slurred, ugly voice had called out._  


 

Jerome felt relief that he could recall even that much, though it was not uncommon for interactions with his mother to begin that way. They always initiated with him. He remembered the way his mother's drunken body swayed as she stumbled through the trailer door. Jerome had been standing by the stove as she approached, forcing himself to enjoy yet another peanut butter sandwich at two in the morning.  


 

_"What disgusting cesspool did ya end up in this time, ma?"_  


 

Groaning, Jerome opened his eyes, recalling the old woman's pig-like laugh at his comment. Only then did he notice the excruciating pain he felt in his head. The teen knew what to expect if he looked at himself in the mirror. It was pointless to be curious.  


 

Still, he was.  


 

_"You always were an ungrateful little swine," his mother had stated. She walked crookedly towards her son, standing inches away. Jerome was silent, merely taking a bit of his half eaten sandwich instead of speaking. He gave the woman a mocking look as he did so and she knew what game he was playing. With the impulse she had left, she took the sandwich from the young man's hands and threw it to the floor._  


 

_"Ya see, ma," Jerome scoffed, "I'm not ungrateful. If I was, I'd have to have something to be grateful for to begin wi-"_  


 

Hand trembling, Jerome's fingers rested on his cheek where his mother had hit him when he mocked her. Without a mirror, he could tell that the smack left his face scratched and swollen. Taking shuddering breaths, the young man pushed himself away from the door behind him to look at himself in the mirror. What Jerome saw made him remember more than he wanted to know about the argument with his mother.  


 

  
_Jerome had laughed when he was hit. It was a strange sort of sound that he knew his mother detested. "You know," he seethed darkly, twisting his neck in a stiff motion, "you have more traits than I thought."_  


 

  
_The woman grabbed her son's collar, yearning to shut him up. "If you know what's good for you, boy," she warned, her voice regaining its normal pitch, "you'll shut your mouth-"_  


 

  
_Jerome lowered his head, his face close enough to his mother's that he could smell Whisky in her breath. "Yeah, there's more to you. You're not just a fucking whore-no pun intended- you're a bitch too-"_  


 

  
_His face was smashed into the cast iron stove top before he could take another breath. Jerome had no time to wonder how his mother had regained her strength so quickly. He could only laugh as the old woman standing over him gripped his hair more firmly and crushed his face into the stove repeatedly._  


 

_"I don't know-" she growled between the sounds of skull hitting iron, "where the hell you got your attitude from, but let me tell you a Goddamn thing, Jerome, it wasn't from me!"_  


 

_Jerome's body had slid to the floor. His face bloody, eyes red and swollen. He was limp, yet he glared at his mother with a look of vengeance._  


 

_"Maybe I got it from one of your lovers," he choked, blood seeping through his lips as he spoke._  


 

Jerome felt numb as he stared at his reflection. No part of his face was pale, as it once was. His eyes were blackened and swollen. Gashes in his forehead and cheeks were cover in dry blood. Rich, thick blood still dripped from his nose, smearing across his mouth and chin. Sweat drenched hair hung loosely around his face. He looked no different than the mediocre clowns that surrounded him every day.  


 

_The young man, just barely conscious, knew better than to expect a cease fire in his punishment. He began to black out at the impaling feeling he suddenly felt in his abdomen._  


 

_"You're lucky I didn't throw you out on the street when you were born, you worthless piece of garbage!" Jerome's mother screamed as she continued to kick her teenage son until he was no longer coherent._  


 

Slowly pulling his shirt off over his head, Jerome laughed cynically at the welts and bruises that covered his torso. He was ashamed to be used to this sort of reality. Glancing up at his beaten reflection, he smirked. How wonderful it would be to put his mother in _her_ place.  


 

And he knew exactly how he could do just that.


End file.
